Of Pookas and Young Winter Sprites
by mtfrosty
Summary: Bunny is old. Very old. And Jack? Well, he's old too. Older than even he realizes. This is mostly a collection of snippets of the life of E. Aster Bunnymund, but Jack shows up often because he's Jack. And it seems he's made it his mission to prove to Aster that even someone as old as him can grow young again. Updates: Jack has more questions, Sanderson gains a new friend
1. Jack Frost

A/N: This is my first foray into the ROTG fanfic realm, so feel free to leave constructive criticism as you wish. ;) Bunnymund is a character that fascinates me in so many ways, and so hopefully this collection of one-shots will do him justice (and Jack, because at this point, they're kind of inseperable...).

Enjoy!

* * *

If pushed, he'll give a much prepared and completely thorough answer of roughly three words: "It was beautiful." Because it was. Is. Will be. Forever. But they don't know that and they never will. Nevertheless, he isn't lying. The Golden Age _was_ beautiful in every facet of its existence: its people, its planets, its languages, its ideals, its chivalry, its… beauty. It was all beauty (_was_ because the present is now and is changing and the Golden Age will never change even if it still _is_).

Sometimes he answers in four: "It was mostly beautiful." In those moments he is sad and his sorrow speaks truth, because to the sad person something went wrong along the way and beauty lost its shine. And it is _very_ sad, he thinks, that such a noble warrior could fall so hard so fast.

And not so fast at all. Such a paradox, everything is.

"Bunny!"

Ah yes. Jack. The boy Aster knows more thoroughly than anyone else and is still completely flummoxed by. _Bunny…_

Oh. Right. He is _Bunny_ right now in this present time. Not _Aster_ or _Bunnymund_, because those two imply wisdom and brilliance and the heaviness of _time_. He's lost something of himself it seems. In the presence of this winter sprite, this youngling of a Guardian, he is being undone. He stands from his crouch, wincing as his back straightens, and turns to smirk at the lad that's bursting into his warren on a blast of frigid air. Thankfully he'd had the presence of mind to winter proof everything eons ago. He _sees_ things when he chooses to (choices he _never_ makes lightly).

"Oi!" he barks. "Watch the flowers! I just planted 'em!"

Jack spares a glance downward and slows his entrance to a slight breeze. He's smiling when he lands, blue eyes alight with joy and laughter and _mischief_. Bunny's smirk disappears and he frowns a little. Jack's smile doesn't shrink. "Oh don't look so suspicious." He laughs. "I'm not pulling anything. This time."

"Hm," Bunny grunts, nonplussed.

Jack begins to amble around, waving his stick in a distracted sort of way. Thankfully nothing cold shoots out of it. "So I was visiting North – you know, like I always do – and he was working on these new trains that he wants to put out this year – "

"Always trains…" Bunny mutters (and it is, literally, _always_ trains; ever since that first battle with Pitch).

Jack's head jerks in his direction with a very pointed look. "Is it?"

Bunny ticks a brow at him. "Is it what?"

"_Always_ trains?"

The Pooka stares hard at the kid (a few centuries does _not_ an adult make) and wonders at the query. Jack is all of a sudden listening to word choice of all things. "Seems to be. The big galah's obsessed with 'em."

Jack's smile is all teeth and no humor. There's a sharpness to it that is not entirely new. Bunny's seen it before. "Yeah, but how _long_ has he been obsessed? Cuz these trains looked _really_ weird. They were all curvy and totally disproportional to… I don't know, to _something_. They were just off. There's no way a train that looks like _that_ can function how it's supposed to…"

Bunny's expression has flattened and he's decided that if the kid is going to fish this _obviously_, then maybe he can let him catch just a smidge of something. Not much. Just a taste. To see how badly he wants to know. "I believe the word you're after is disproportion_ate_. If yer gonna speak English, mate, then get it _right._" Jack's still smiling, so Bunny decides enough is enough and tosses him a truly vicious smirk. "Why are you here, Jackie? It's not to talk about what a proper train looks like. What did North say?"

Jack is beginning to look uncertain about the way their conversation is going, but he doesn't shy away from it. Not yet. "How old are you?"

_It was beautiful._ Flashes of light and brilliant color and technological marvels burst behind his eyes, but only for a moment. There was a time _before_ the Golden Age too. One that stretched (stretch_es_) beyond beauty into that part of the spectrum called _glorious_. For entirely different reasons. Beauty cannot touch glory and Bunny… he _remembers_.

A part of him wants to laugh at the absurdity of the question, but that would be unfair to Jack since he doesn't know. That's no fault of his. It's Moony's fault. But that's a different train of thought entirely, as well as a different time that he doesn't have the _time_ to visit right now. It wouldn't change anything anyway. So instead he lets the smirk slide off his face and tilts his head a bit, studying the boy through narrowed eyes. "Who's askin'?"

It's a strange question, but Jack seems to understand what he's getting at and that means the world to him, because this is a serious topic for many reasons. "I'm not playing, Bunny," he says, voice level.

Bunny smiles and nods. "Good. I'll make you a deal."

"Okay…" Jack looks suspicious. Understandably. And rightly.

"I'll give you an answer, but you have to do the same. That's a serious question, so I get to ask one in return. Deal?"

There's a long pause, but then Jack squares himself up and nods. "Deal. You first."

He's so _young_, this child. And yet old in some ways too. He supposes the combination is due to the truly disproportionate amount of light to cold that dwells within the lad, but Bunny finds it unsettling that what rides on the surface is chill and frost and bluster. He will have _words_ with Moony when he decides the time is _right_.

"Very well, Jack," he murmurs. "I am _much_ older than North, so trust me when I say that _curvy_ trains are the only sorts of trains that run _properly_."

Jack blinks and then scowls. "You didn't answer the question."

Bunny smirks. "I did according to the not so specific requirements of our deal: we are both required to give _an_ answer, so long as it is truthful. I believe truth was implied. Your turn." He doesn't give the boy time to spit a response at him. "How old are _you_?"

Jack blinks again, opens his mouth as if to reply and then closes it. He looks confused and Bunny's heart melts at the sight. "I… I don't know," Jack whispers, and it's as if the boy has only just now come to that realization. Not a year ago, he would have readily answered 'three hundred years, give or take'.

_It was glorious._ The time before the Golden Age. There was a light the likes of which this world had yet to see. This world, right _now_. Give it time, and they might see it again. Bunny (_Aster_) smiles at his young friend. One he's known for millennia and yet hasn't known for more than three centuries. "Good on ya, mate," he rumbles, stepping forward to slip a comforting arm around the boy. "That, at least, is the _truth._"


	2. Pitch

Aster isn't sure what compels him to visit Pitch now, of all times. All things considered, the ever-changing, ever-moving-forward present would not see Pitch at his most amenable. But that is neither here nor there and Aster is, for once, acting on gut feeling and not logical analysis. He blames it on his teammates. All four of them and all the centuries of companionship that come with them (he used to be more efficient and less impressionable without them).

He decides gut feelings can be trusted on rare occasions, and this fits the bill.

The trail of coal-black sand leads him to the entrance of a cave which, not-so-oddly, leads him into a tunnel. It is not one of _his_ tunnels, however; that much is evident by the shoddy upkeep of the interior. Roots protrude from the sides and thwack him in the face as he silently zips by. It takes all of his not inconsiderable willpower to resist from cleaning them up and smoothing out the rough and rocky soil they drink from.

He senses fearlings. Aster's ears twitch and he grits his teeth at the low moans and raspy whispers that begin to snake through the tunnel.

_Regroup, rebuild, restore, return! _

It's a chant of sorts and he immediately hates it, especially in that oily, snake-like dialect. He hates it, but he doesn't fear it. Aster is too old and too _tired_ to fear it (them, those _beasts_) anymore.

_Regroup, rebuild, restore, RETURN!_

Return. Right. That's why he's here. He rounds a final corner, stops short in the face of a massive, shifting, sickly mass of dark sand and spirit, and releases a short growl from deep in his throat. In an instant, the mass shrinks and crams itself back into the form of a human. Of Pitch. This tall, slender, pointed man that used to be so much more than he is now.

Aster blinks and Pitch is suddenly right in front of him, bending forward with a maniac's grin so that his nose is a hairsbreadth from his own twitching whiskers. "Welcome, _rabbit,_" he spits.

"Hello, Koz," Aster says. He refuses to flinch at the nearness of the man. A villain and temporary enemy he may be, but there is something to be said for old (ancient) friendships. Old alliances. Old… well. _Everything_ is old now, it seems.

Pitch twitches away with a hiss as if burned. "_Aster_," he says, and it's almost as if that name burns him too. "_You_ are _not_ welcome here. _Leave._"

A single, furry brow ticks towards the graveled ceiling. "And if I don't?"

Pitch glares from a distance of a few meters. It's enough for a sand-formed scythe to reach the Pooka, but not enough for the Pooka to physically reach _him._ Not counting boomerangs, of course. But Pitch has most certainly taken those into account, so Aster assumes the distance is due to a false sense of security. Or a show of cowardice.

But Pitch is no coward.

The man doesn't answer the question. "Why are you here?" he asks instead.

Aster sighs. "To warn you and encourage you. A bit oxymoronic, perhaps, but I've become fond of multitasking. Makes everything easier when you're the only one available."

The not so subtle stab hits its mark and draws a dagger of a smile from Pitch. "Forced habits do often become the ones most appreciated in hindsight. In that case, you're welcome."

Aster just shakes his head. "I've long moved past that, my friend. It might take a few centuries more for me to forgive you, but I'm willing to try. I'm here to discuss something different."

"Oh?" Pitch stares at him, gold eyes fixed and unwavering in their intensity. "And what is that?"

If this had been a moment caught between battles during that long ago war, Aster might have run from that stare. He might have run to his brothers, to his sisters, to his _family_ and regrouped. But the war is over, his family is gone, and he is all that remains of a once noble race. _Still_ noble race. He does not flinch, he does not run; he stares down the thousands of fearlings behind that twisted gaze and doesn't look away. "You've hurt a child. You've hurt _many_ children. As I said…" He sniffs. "I'm here to warn you, Koz. Just once. This is no longer a war and you are no longer a general at the mercy of the demons you gave yourself over to."

Pitch snarls at this, an ugly slash of teeth in a ghostly face. "I had no _choice._"

"I know," he says, nodding. "Sandy told me what happened, what he saw. Anyone would have gone mad. But now is not then and now is what can change –"

"Oh but you could, Aster," Pitch interrupts, smiling now. "You _could_ change it if you would but let yourself."

Aster goes cold. He stills his ever-twitching ears, takes a deep, steadying (_much-needed_) breath and lets it out slowly. There are _rules_. Time-honored, oath-bound rules that he _will. not. break._ But _could_ he? Oh yes. He could very easily visit the Lord High General of the Galaxies at his post-victory station, standing in all of his uniformed, hero-esque glory, guarding the gate to a prison holding a writhing mass of fury-riddled fearlings. Fearlings that whisper a steady stream of lies into helpless ears. Because he'd volunteered, offered up his time and energy to make sure they never escaped again.

Gave himself over.

"_Daddy, help me…"_

This finally makes him flinch. He swallows. "I could, yes."

The smile disappears. "But you _won't,_" Pitch spits. "You're a _coward_, Aster, a disgrace to your kind. Such power you possess if only you would wield it."

He's heard it all before. Knows he'll hear it from Jack eventually, because the kid is so young and ignorant and curious… and almost as old as himself, come to think of it. Jack is young until he _remembers_. Everything in its time, and it is not yet time.

"It was your choice, Koz," he murmurs. "History is made of choices and I _will not_ take those from you or anyone else. They are yours and yours alone. I am where I am supposed to be and _when_ I am supposed to be –"

Pitch snarls at him and a few dark fingers of sand flick out towards the Pooka. "You're no friend of mine, _rabbit_. You never were –"

"ENOUGH!" Aster slaps a single foot on the soggy, shorn up earth and Pitch goes quiet. Roots that were previously hanging limply from all sides of the tunnel disappear into the dirt only to reappear as a single, neatly spun-together rope that snags Pitch by an ankle. There's a crack snaking out from beneath Aster's foot that jerks its way towards the villain and stops just short. The Pooka's eyes are blazing with ancient green fire.

Pitch stays still, though he seems unbothered by the tether on his leg. He doesn't look away. They are two warriors from a time long gone reengaging in a war that never truly ended.

Aster takes a step forward. "Opening old wounds will get us nowhere and it's making me angry. You don't want that." Pitch smirks. "So let me make things very clear for you: you hurt some kids. You hurt Tooth. You _killed_ Sandy and you almost killed me, a slipup that won't happen again. Jack has a good heart and you tried to kill that too. So here's the deal: you've crossed a line. You cross it again and you're finished."

Pitch forms his usual weapon of choice and slices through the thickly corded root with ease, quirking a brow as he does so. "Finished? What sort of finished? Timeout? Grounded? Suspended? Tied up?"

"We will kill you, Koz." The name makes Pitch flinch and Aster is almost sorry for it. "Moony is more gracious than I am. They're _all_ more gracious than I am. Well… almost all of them."

Pitch frowns.

This is no time to gloat and no time to feel victorious, so Aster does and feels neither. "I _remember_ things. Important things from important times. I may be the oldest, but not by much. You and I, we can't do each other much harm. Not anymore. But there _is_ someone who kept you contained for a long time and who _can _destroy you, if he's willing. And if he _remembers_." He pauses, tilts his head. "That's the warning. The good news is that there's still hope for you, and the same one who can destroy you can also save you."

"The boy?"

Aster finally finds it within himself to smile. "Yes." He turns from Pitch and taps his foot lightly on the ground. The eerie crevasse knits itself together and leaves a tiny, vibrantly green sproutling in its place. "There is hope for you yet, my friend," he says over his shoulder. "Try not to forget that."


	3. Toothania

The change catches them all entirely off guard. One day, Aster is fooling about in his lab in his green frock and goggles and the next day he shows up to a Guardian meeting wearing nothing but ornamented bracers on his arms, leather wrappings around his feet, and a single-strap holster across his chest. Two boomerangs are snapped into the back of the holster, neither of which bears any similarity to the other.

One looks normal. That is, it has a proper bent shape to it and is smoothed out with pointed ends. The other looks unfinished, though they all know that it needs no work. Aster would never wear something not already perfected to his standard. The shape is crude, but clearly intended. One end is a polished stub, the other a vicious work of sharpened point, saw-like notches, and sculpted ridges. There are designs on both boomerangs that bear a striking resemblance to the markings in the Pooka's fur.

Markings they really hadn't been able to fully examine until now.

_He's beautiful_, Tooth thinks. _In a dangerous sort of way._

Aster, of course, acts like nothing is new and completely ignores all of their collective surprise. He strolls to North's beat up workbench and seats himself on one of the new stools. It's higher than the others and spins. Still ignoring their blatant stares, he lightly shoves off of the workbench and spins in one complete circle before catching himself and shooting the bandit a look of approval. "A significant improvement, my friend. Well done."

Tooth blinks, surprised all over again. She'd half-expected his voice to have changed along with the rest of him.

North finally breaks their seeming trance. "Where's your coat?! Your goggles? Your staff! What is all this?" Here he wildly gestures at the Pooka's entire body.

Aster just smiles a little. "I've decided a change is in order. This is the change. Pookas are more than inventors and philosophers and occasional, _uninterested,_ meddlers. It's time I embrace that." He pauses, tilting his head to the side. The smile slips a bit. "Or, _re_embrace it, as it were."

North chuckles at the emphasis on 'uninterested', but when Aster's expression sobers, he does too. There's a moment of heavy silence before Tooth deems it wise to intervene. "Well I, for one, appreciate the change. Aster, those markings in your fur… they're gorgeous. Do they mean something?"

The smile is back and it's softer this time. The Pooka nods at her. "Thank you. In answer to your question, yes and no."

She rolls her eyes and sighs when it only draws a low chuckle from him. "Whatever. We'll talk later."

"If you say so," he murmurs. Then he turns to North. "North, if you please. I'm pressed for time." They all groan at this which only serves to draw an indignant huff from their odd friend. "As I've stated at _least _four hundred and fifteen times before, I _will not_ abuse the responsibility that's been given to me. So, _North_, to put it crudely: _get on with it._"

North isn't cowed in the slightest. "One question first." Aster lifts a furry brow in response. "Your staff… I'm _concerned_ that you've given up a beautiful weapon in exchange for two that, in my experienced opinion, are inferior. Surely you would afford yourself as much protection as can be offered?"

Tooth can tell that North attempted to insert as much charm and diplomacy into how he worded his opinion, but she can also tell that Aster isn't impressed by it. At all. One of his ridiculously long ears has begun to twitch and the size of it makes the irritated motion that much more obvious. "Aster, please be nice…" she tries.

His gaze flicks to her for an instant. When he looks at North again, he takes a long breath before speaking. "Perhaps you'd like to try them out for yourself? Or maybe you'd prefer a demonstration?" He reaches back and they hear one of the weapons being released from its place. It's the one that looks unfinished. And sharp, and dangerous, and deadly, and _ugly_…

Tooth can't look at it and Aster notices. His mouth twitches and his green eyes turn as sharp and as hard as the weapon he holds. This too is a change that surprises her. For all of his analytical way of speaking and his aloof mannerisms, he'd always come across as kind to her. Generous. Compassionate at times even. She holds his gaze and lets him know she very much _doesn't_ approve.

North, on the other hand, is examining the weapon with a professional's eye. When he finishes, he looks at the Pooka and nods. "I would, actually. After the meeting we'll go outside."

Aster frowns. "It's _below zero_, North."

"Did you winter proof them?" North only smirks when Aster glares at him and holsters the weapon once more.

"The meeting, if you please," this new Aster growls.

Tooth barely pays attention to the conversation. Her eyes are on their fellow Guardian for the majority of it and if he notices (which he more than likely does) he gives no indication. She doesn't like this change. Initially she did, but what the bracers and the weapons imply completely snuffs out the beauty of his natural appearance. Even those only seem to add to the suddenly dangerous flair present in Aster's normally put-off manner.

Tooth decides to have words with him after the meeting is over and _before_ what will surely be a disgusting display of martial prowess.

That is, she decides to do this until she finally tears her gaze away and finds herself staring across the table at Sanderson. The dusty little man is wearing a fond smile that's so soft she feels compelled to try and touch it (she barely keeps her hands to herself… he's not a kitten for goodness' sake!). It puts a significant wrench in her plans because it implies something entirely _different_ than what she'd concluded.

Sanderson very much _approves._

_Pookas are more than inventors and philosophers and occasional, uninterested, meddlers. It's time I embrace that._

Embrace what?

_Or _re_embrace it._

Perhaps this Aster isn't so new after all. Tooth glances at him once more and finds him looking at her. His eyes are no longer green flint, but she won't easily forget that they _were_. She will still have words with him, but it will maybe be tomorrow. And it will be over tea. And it will be for the purpose of getting to know this friend of hers, because she's suddenly realized that there is much that she doesn't know about him at all.

Aster seems to read something in her gaze and gives a tiny, almost imperceptible nod as if he'll allow it. Then he turns his attention back to North and raises a paw. A paw that's blessedly free of that dastardly weapon. "Now North… honestly… can you sufficiently explain to me your reasoning behind wanting to install _turbo-boosters_ on your sleigh? And if you can, somehow, _convince_ us that they are _needed_, what makes you think I'll help?"


	4. Jack Frost 2

_"__It's just physics, mate."_

_"__Well when they're all that _close_…"_

_"__Sheila's brain is old as Alcheringa, figuratively speakin'... no foolin' her. Ever."_

_"__Fancy yerself some stardust, Jackie? Yer right knackered if you think you can."_

Bunny's random comments range from sarcastic to vaguely cryptic to the equivalent of a verbal eye roll, and Jack usually finds himself spending too much time trying to puzzle them out to be irritated by any of them. He _wants_ to be annoyed, but he's curious by nature and Bunny typically inserts enough information to imply that he _knows things._ Things that Jack himself doesn't. _That _irritates him.

_Just_ physics? No. No it's not. It's _magic_. Why must it be more than that? Or less? North's snow globes shouldn't be questioned or demeaned in any way… and yet Jack has questions now, but Bunny is already off discussing something else with the big fella and… _(sigh)._

When all of _what_ are that close? He'd been asking _North_, not Bunny, anyway, and the kangaroo just happened to be around (_"How do you think I did that? There were so many and it was like a giant WAVE coming right at me and I just acted on instinct…"_). North had just ignored Bunny's comment and shrugged. "Is something we can test if you want… but you were upset. Emotion makes for – eh – _strong_ result. Is not unusual." Cue _actual _eye roll from Bunny.

And what on _EARTH_ is Alcheringa? Jack had just commented on Tooth's seriously impressive memory and their hair-brained teammate had whipped out some Aussie slang of some sort… but knowing Bunny, he'd probably get all sensitive, so he hadn't said anything…

"Can you teach me sometime?" he'd asked Sandy, a few months post-Pitch. The dusty little man had actually given it some serious thought before either of them picked up on Bunny's not-so-distant chuckle. Jack had _almost_ lit into him for thinking he couldn't learn, but then he'd processed Bunny's words and merely frowned instead. Stardust?

Now he hovers at a distance, watching Bunny hack cocoa bean pods from their trees with a wicked-looking blade. It's shorter than his boomerangs and thin, but it cuts through the stalks with ease. There's a small satchel hooked around the Pooka's waist that's already sagging with the added weight of the wet beans. Jack can smell them from his observation point. It's a weird smell.

"Whadya want?"

Bunny's rough voice drifts over the breeze to prick at Jack's ears. His thoughtful frown deepens. "How long have you known I was here?"

Bunny stops and turns to shoot him a look. "This is the Ivory Coast, ya drongo. Hot. Humid. Sticky. I _felt_ you before I heard you, and that's sayin' somethin'." He waves dismissively. "Yer not much for subtle in colder places, so here? Well, you get the point."

Jack does. He huffs. "Fine. Whatever. I have a question." He has to make himself ask before he loses the nerve.

"You usually do…"

"What do you think of magic?"

This seems to give Bunny pause and Jack takes it as a victory. He must've asked a _good_ question. His fellow Guardian pulls his blade down from mid-swing and studies it for a moment before pulling a cloth from the same belt the satchel's attached to. He studies Jack as he wipes the blade clean. "I think many things of magic. What, exactly, are you asking?"

Jack studies him back, nods to himself, and then begins to pace in midair. "Are there different kinds? Can I _really_ learn how to use dreamsand, or should I not even try? Does Tooth use magic? Do _you_? How come North is so good at it? Who is Ombric? I heard the name only once… Do you know anything about _my_ magic? I want to know what I can do with it and how to do it, but I'm not sure who to ask… What does physics have to do with it? What about –"

Bunny's chuckle interrupts his train of thought and freezes him in place. "Slow down, mate… give me a chance, here. First off, you need to understand somethin'. _Magic_ has everything to do with _physics_. Not the other way 'round. Second, Pookas don't call it magic, though others have called us sorcerers. Magic implies something not governed by the laws of nature, and I very much disagree."

"But – " Jack pouts at Bunny's raised hand.

"Argue with me if you wish, but you _will_ lose."

Jack tilts his head to the side and just _looks_ at him. "And you call _me_ cocky?"

Bunny smirks. "You haven't earned the right, yet."

"What?!" Jack explodes. He absently twirls his staff, shooting off small flurries in irritation. "I kicked Pitch's butt into the ground last year; I think I've earned the right ten times over!"

"_Sandy_ kicked Pitch's butt. So did Jamie. But we're not discussing Pitch, yeah?"

"We are now," Jack snaps.

"Fair warning then," Bunny says, green eyes narrowing. "With _me_, any discussion of Pitch is off limits, so I suggest you cool yer blustery jets."

"_Why?_" And Jack truly wants to know, because he simply _cannot_ figure the guy out. "_Why_ is it off limits? Like it or not, I'm part of your little team now and teammates tell each other things. Don't you think I should know what's up between you and Pitch in case he comes around again – "

"He won't."

" – and decides to target you _a second time_? How can I help you if I don't know anything?"

Bunny's glare doesn't waver, but he does take a long breath. "Jack, there are some things that you will _never_ understand about me. You're just going to have to accept that."

"No." Jack lowers himself to the ground with a thud, plants his staff in front of him and leans his weight into it. "No. I _won't_. You know why, Cottontail?"

The Pooka raises a furry brow. "I think I have an idea, yeah."

"You're my _friend,_ Bunny," Jack snaps. "That means it's my job to understand you, to help you, and to be a stubborn pain in your sorry rear end for as long as it takes you to allow me that."

"If you think you can."

Jack opens his mouth to reply but then shuts it in surprise. He'd expected some sort of outburst from the rabbit. A quick loss of temper. For things to start flying in his direction. Bunny's answer is none of that. "What?"

A tiny smirk ghosts across Bunny's mouth before he huffs and turns away. "You heard me. Now. _Magic._" He fairly spits the last word. "I only use the word, because you do. Not because I like it. Like I said before you brought up all this bunk about Pitch , magic has ta do with physics. You understand physics, you understand _magic_. For the most part. It's a start –"

"You never answered my question," Jack reminds him, absently grinding his staff into the damp earth.

Bunny shoots him a flinty look. "No, _mate_, I didn't. Another thing I _also_ said: if you think you can."

"Can what?"

"Listen to your own bloody lingo, Jack," Bunny huffs. "Help me. Understand me. Be a pain in my sorry rear end for _as long as it takes._ There will be no answerin' of _that_ question. Not today. Maybe not even this century."

Jack holds the Pooka's glare long enough for him to realize that Bunny isn't going to flinch. Not today, at least. He whips his staff up, spins it once, and shoots a few dozen shards of ice towards the cocoa plants. Both of them watch as all but two of them slice neatly through the stems Bunny had been hacking through. It's precision shooting on Jack's part and he smirks back at Bunny's raised brow. "I've been practicing."

"I see that." Bunny jerks his head towards the two ice spears imbedded into one of the tree's branches. "And the others?"

Jack shrugs. "What of them?" He watches Bunny shake his head and then stride over to the branch. With deft movements, he grips each shard and yanks it from the branch. In the sticky heat, it doesn't take them long to melt once they hit the ground. The Pooka then lays a furry hand on one of the splintered holes and mutters something too low for Jack to hear. The youth leans forward, frowning. "What're you…"

The branch is closing back up, knitting itself together. No. Strike that. _Bunny_ is knitting it back together somehow. Jack is well aware of his ability to open tunnels to literally anywhere. He's seen the little green sproutlings that bloom when the tunnels close. He's visited the Warren enough to have a new appreciation for the color _green._

But he's always wondered at the sense of _life_ in the Pooka's home. The heavy, damp feeling of the vegetation that covers it. The taste of the air (it's _earthy_) and the color of the water (is _clear_ a color?) and the sense of despair that had fallen over it after Pitch had wrecked it all.

There's something different happening here, with this tree. It seems small, but it's not.

"_Magic_, Jack, is destructive if used carelessly," Bunny says. Once the branch is as it had been, the older Guardian turns and leans against it. "In answer to your previous questions: Yes and no, _no_, ask her, I do not, ask him, Ombric is a fool and a friend, and as for your _magic_…" Here Bunny smirks. "I could probably help."

Jack dares to smile. He dares to _hope_. "_Will_ you?"

"Now you're listening…" Bunny's smirk straightens into a more serious expression. "That depends."

"On what?"

"On what you're going to do with it."

Jack begins to fiddle with his staff again. "You don't trust me?" When Bunny responds by pulling out his blade and turning back to the tree, Jack goes still. For Bunny, it's the equivalent of running away. It doesn't happen often. "Bunny?"

The _thwack_ of the blade continues and pods continue to thud into the damp ground at the Pooka's feet. When Bunny finally speaks, it's with a cool, mildly interested manner that Jack finds totally out of place. "I don't trust myself, Jack. That's no fault of yours."

Jack opens his mouth to say something, but then changes his mind and shuts it. Without another word, he turns and lets the wind carry him away. To anyplace else. The Ivory Coast had suddenly grown _chilly_, and for once, Jack Frost is not responsible.


	5. Sanderson Mansnoozie

Sanderson Mansnoozie feels the presence of the visitor immediately. He has never had visitors, but his island _is_ only a few months old. It's in the middle of an ocean in parts not yet discovered (or _formerly_ not yet discovered) and so he had assumed he wouldn't get visitors for quite some time if ever at all. Because of this, he's both intrigued and cautious.

The dunes are blazing with the morning light of the sun and he smiles with glee. From up above, his island must look like a swirling, ever-changing flame and he thinks it fitting. Emily would have approved. She would have approved very much. Sanderson misses her, but he immediately moves on to thinking about his visitor. Is it a child? Are they from this planet? Can they be trusted? What are they here for? _How_ did they get here?

That last one's a doozie, because as far as he's aware, the people of Earth have yet to invent a means to travel in these parts. The seas here are too rough and too unpredictable and too far away from anywhere to travel to by longboat or even ship.

With a sigh and another sleepy grin, Sanderson maneuvers his way up the steep side of a dune (he likes to actually _walk_ in the mornings) and takes a seat at the top so that he can search for the mysterious being. When his eyes glimpse a distant figure that looks awfully like a giant rabbit (a _Pooka_ maybe? He'd heard stories that one had survived…) he slides his way down and then zips across the surface of the island leaving a sparkling, blazing dust cloud in his wake. The Pooka (it's the only creature it _could_ be) turns towards him and waits, blank-faced, as he approaches. When he finally arrives, grinning wildly, his visitor deigns to speak.

"Are you the giver of dreams?" His ears are twitching in an agitated manner (there's so _much_ ear and so much _twitch_) and one furry brow jumps above an emerald lens.

Sanderson thinks that this is _not_ a patient Pooka. Not now, at any rate. So he nods quickly, but signs a few images to say that he's only just begun and that he was commissioned by the Man in the Moon to do so. _If the Moon doesn't shine_, he signs, _then I am to be of assistance._

"Hmph," the Pooka huffs. "Right. I'll deal with _him_ later. Tell me, Star Captain, what do you know of my kind?"

It's an odd question and it comes at the back end of something that Sanderson finds disturbing. What does he mean, he'll deal with _him_ later? The Lunar Prince is not to be _dealt with_; he is to be respected and befriended. And Sanderson knows very little of Pookas. His star-taming days had never taken him close to the Pookan home world… and how does he know that he used to be a Star Captain?

For the first time in a while, Sanderson frowns. Images flash between them among puffs of sand and when he finishes, the Pooka sniffs a little and looks away. "I suppose I am being a bit more direct than you are used to, than _most_ are used to, but there is no sense in being otherwise. The Lunar Prince has suffered great tragedy, yes. Should I respect him? That is a question not worth asking. At all. Ever. In any time or place or space. I find it insulting that you're implying I do not…"

Sanderson's frown has transformed into a puzzled expression.

"… But he _did_ arrive unexpectedly, as did _you_, and I might point out that you _both_ neglected to converse with _me_ about the goings-on of this planet. Respectful, _that_ is _not._"

What? Sanderson draws himself up and puffs out his chest a bit. _We intend no harm, as you've seen –_

"Which is why I am being _civil_," the Pooka snaps. It's the first bit of emotion he's shown. "You clearly know very little of my kind or you would have sought me out immediately upon your arrival."

The Pooka's expression is stern behind his goggles, but Sanderson refuses to back down. Because he does know at least one thing of Pookas. _I know you're the last._

The incessant twitch stops so suddenly, Sanderson fears the Pooka's had some sort of nervous breakdown. A dreadful silence falls upon the two of them and he _swears_ it's spread across his entire island, a stillness so thick and _heavy_ it could probably be cut with a sand whip. It is only now that he notices the ornately patterned robe his visitor is wearing and the elegant staff he is carrying. Before everything went quiet, the robe had been moving and twitching with the island winds and the staff had moved as an extension of the Pooka's arm. Despite the simplicity of the desert landscape, the Pooka's garb had blended into it seamlessly. Almost without effort.

Now Sanderson notices _everything_, and the entirety of this creature is so very _odd_. The silence doesn't bother him much even if it is a bit unsettling, so he takes the opportunity to study the Pooka. There are ovals stitched into the robe in shades of green that are just barely a degree different from each other. No. Not ovals. Not all of them. Some are swirls like his island. Like dying stars.

Like galaxies.

Some are just circles. The staff is the same. Oval emeralds adorn the crafted stick at seemingly random intervals. He wonders what the obsession with green is all about. Just as he's about to ask, the Pooka slowly raises a large paw (thought it's more so a furry hand) and draws the green lenses away from his face. Deep wells of the darkest, brightest green stare back at him and Sanderson _finally_ takes a tiny step back.

But then he's rushing forward and hovering high enough to get as close as he dares, because he's seen this before. In children. Just not this bad. The Pooka doesn't retreat, but his eyes do narrow a touch. "What are you – ?"

_How can I help?_ he's signing before the Pooka finishes.

The Pooka's broken, pain-wracked eyes blink twice and then look away. The tiny smile that graces the creature's face is the first thing that _isn't_ odd. Sanderson finds it sad that it's the one thing he's able to interpret with confidence, but at least it's something. There's so much hurt there, so much bitterness. Fury, even. But most of all there's just sadness, and he needs to make it better.

He shifts along pockets of air so that he remains in the Pooka's line of sight and quickly begins to fashion pictures and symbols and actual words when he can't think of something faster. _I DO give dreams, but only to children. You know I used to be a Star-Tamer, so you must know that I've also guarded wishes. Thousands upon millions of them… but Pookas never wished upon stars. I would have heard them, seen them, felt them, guarded them with my life. I…_ He trails off at the tired sigh his new friend emits.

Friend.

_Friends_ should know each other's names. Sanderson smiles and extends a hand. _My name is Sanderson Mansnoozie_. _It's a sincere pleasure to meet you_.

Green eyes catch him and hold him in place. The tiny smile grows a touch wry. The ears begin to twitch again and Sanderson takes this as a good sign. "Is it?" At Sanderson's fervent nod, the Pooka grows serious again. "Well then. I am most honored to meet you as well."

_Your name?_

There's a twitch of the Pooka's mouth, a _very_ slight softening of his haunted eyes. "E. Aster Bunnymund."

Sanderson grins so wide that he feels his face might burst. _What do your friends call you?_

His new friend huffs humorlessly. "I have not had the pleasure of friendship for some time now."

The grin slips away. _Why not? Surely you get lonely!_

Bunnymund glances away, surveying the small tendrils of island that stretch and bend into rough choppy seas. In the sun, they shimmer and flicker, echoes of joy ricocheting between two stars. "Your home is beautiful," the Pooka murmurs.

Sanderson stares at him before smiling a little. He nods. _Yes._

"I suppose – I suppose you may call me Aster."

_How may I help you, Aster?_

Aster's head tilts to the side and then straightens again. There's a peculiar glint in his eyes that Sanderson is tempted to interpret as _mischief,_ but he's not sure that's right. "You say you give dreams only to children?"

_Yes, when the Moon does not shine._

"If it's not too much trouble, Sanderson – "

_Sandy._

Aster blinks. "Right. Nicknames. I'm afraid we're not there yet. As I was saying, if it's not too much trouble – "

_You need sleep._

"I… yes."

Sanderson grins and silently chuckles at Aster's stammer. Somehow, he just _knows_ that Pookas do not stammer often. _I believe I can help with that._

Aster looks skeptical, but he's removing his robe and setting his staff down. Beneath the ornate covering, his friend's fur is sticking up in patches and is even matted in places. There are uglier spots where scars have yet to heal and fur has yet to grow back. Sanderson can't help his startled reaction and Aster's eyes drop to ice in an instant. "_Friends_ keep secrets, yes?"

He frowns and glares daggers at the Pooka. _Dreams are more precious than secrets, my friend. I am only JUST beginning to know you. Do not insult my honor with such blatant distrust._

Surprisingly (or not?) Aster doesn't seem bothered a bit. He merely sighs. "I have had friends before," is all he says.

The implication is clear, though, and Sandy's anger fades. _I cannot give you dreams. I do not know you well enough yet. But I can grant you peaceful slumber; you have my word._

Aster's steady gaze does not waver. "And what is the word of a Star Captain worth?"

_You'll find out. In time._

It's the last two words that draw an exasperated, huffy laugh. "When I wake, we will have to talk."

_Yes._

Sandy flicks some sand between his hands and watches Aster until his friend finally finds it within himself to close his eyes. Then the tendrils of sand wind their way towards Aster's taut, scar-riddled body and disappear in a light puff right above his ever-twitching nose. The Pooka's form goes still and then slack and soon enough Sandy can hear the light wheeze of slow, steady breathing. He smiles.

_Sleep well, my friend._

_*o*_

His island shudders briefly the next morning and then returns to normal. Sandy assumes that Aster has awoken and flies to the spot he'd left him. The Pooka is not there, but there is a small desert flower in his place and an equally small wooden box. The flower is a vibrant, fiery orange with lean petals and is swaying gently with the breeze. The box that rests beneath it is a plain wood.

When he opens it, his brows furrow in confusion.

There is an egg inside, but it glimmers like his island. It is only upon closer inspection that Sandy's eyes widen and his mouth drops open in surprise. There is star-sand fused onto the egg's surface in tiny, detailed swirls similar to the ones that had adorned Aster's robe. _Mini galaxies,_ Sandy thinks with a grin. It is only when he turns it around that he sees the simple inscription made with obvious care on the other side: "In memory of Emily Jane."


End file.
